Fifteenth Month
The day I proposed to Hannah Amell, we discovered that we were characters in a romance novel about a woman destined to save a broken man.
She was the heroine, fated to devote her life to redeeming the male lead.
I was nothing more than a nobody in the background.
Hannah’s eyes had blazed with fury. Defying the fate written for her, she dragged me to the courthouse to make our marriage official, then held a lavish wedding with me.
As I held her in my arms, she made me a promise. “Leon, I don’t believe in some stupid book or its ridiculous redemption plot. The only thing I believe in is that I love you.”
In the years that followed, everyone saw us as the perfect, devoted couple.
I really thought we could spend the rest of our lives happily, growing old side by side.
Then, in the third year of our marriage, the novel’s hero got drunk, rode his motorcycle the wrong way down the road, and came hurtling straight toward me.
In a split second, I wrenched the wheel aside and slammed hard into the roadside barrier.
I was covered in blood. A shard of glass had pierced my heart. Every beat sent another burst of fatal pain through my chest.
Hannah, sitting in the passenger seat, was shaken but completely unharmed.
She struggled to force open the car door. The moment she saw the unconscious man lying on the ground, all the color drained from her face.
“Cedric!”
In that instant, the blood in my veins ran cold.
Cedric. That was the name of the novel’s hero.